The Remedy Puzzle
by Avice.cr
Summary: Johnlock and a case. A demanding case takes its toll on Sherlock and John convinces him they should go on a quiet retreat in the country. Not as quiet as expected. "No need to give me looks, John. I'm not going to meddle." Conan Doyle's The Reigate Puzzle rewritten and modernized.
1. Chapter 1

At the end of February Mycroft came over to Baker Street with a matter of gravest national importance. The case posed an unforeseen challenge in its scale and complexity, so Sherlock couldn't feign disinterest convincingly for more than half a day. The matter concerned certain vital trade relations outside Europe as well as an eminent multi-national company along with its chairwoman and board.

The problem was known only to a handful of people in the government, but was imperative to the survival of the country, according to Mycroft. It involved people both in politics and business who were to be handled with kid gloves, but who mostly didn't know, and weren't to know, what the investigation was about (or that there was an investigation).

Courtesy never was Sherlock's forte, but this time he had to acknowledge that Mycroft was right, and did his best in keeping a civil tongue. It would not help getting to the truth, if Mycroft would have to spend his resources explaining why his brother went about harassing the high and mighty, when the whole thing needed to be kept under the lid.

The social demands were a further strain on Sherlock on an already demanding case. On some meetings he hardly spoke, whispering or writing his questions and comments to John and letting him mind the p's and q's. On occasions, when Sherlock's irritation was getting the better of him, John hurried them out as soon as he could – even if it meant going back a second time. These were people you could not cross, not even if you were the world's only consulting detective. The poor blighters who weren't, had to suffer twice as much impatient rudeness.

Sherlock laboured tirelessly, hardly sleeping and eating even less. When he wasn't out chasing clues at all hours, he was thinking, hands often in front of his face, immobile for hours. On many nights John left him to go to bed, and found him exactly as he had been in the morning. He said nothing, sometimes stroked Sherlock's back in passing or kissed his head. He could feel the tension under his fingers, Sherlock's mind and body restlessly pushing for results. But John also saw the breakthroughs, when another piece of the puzzle slipped in place, and Sherlock was full of energy and excitement, eyes shining. He knew Sherlock needed his work. As the spring drew on, he could only hope that the work wouldn't claim all of him.

It was evident that Sherlock didn't sleep for more than an hour or two on most nights, only occasionally allowing himself a full eight hours. More than once John woke up to the plane hitting the tarmac, not remembering whether they'd headed abroad yet again or just got back home. And Sherlock glimpsed him, fully alert, with a hint of disappointment in his eyes for John needing the sleep.

John was more worried about the eating, though. Digestion impeded thinking and week after week the case continued to demand Sherlock's full capabilities as new people had to be interviewed, more data piled up, and new clues had to be followed. The plane food obviously didn't invite anyone's appetite, so John tried to tempt Sherlock with Chinese, ordered in from the Thai place they had been meaning to try out, until finally attempting to get even a cup of tea in him. It was futile. He had to settle for popping a multi-vitamin into Sherlock's glass of water every now and then. Sherlock gave him long looks for that, but even Sherlock had to give in to some demands of his body.

By the end of May the case had really taken its toll on Sherlock. He had lost weight, his whole face grey from lack of sleep. He couldn't manage even the shortest conversation without agitation, snapping at the slightest excuse. John regularly stood outside their flat just breathing, calming himself down, for the first time seriously wondering how much verbal abuse he could take, almost longing for the army's basic training as a new recruit – how wonderful it had been being called a maggot. He might just have lost his temper had it not been so clear how strained Sherlock was.

However, at long last, the case was finally drawing to a close, a maze of suspects and witnesses having been navigated through successfully and tons of documents read to understand the connections. Sherlock headed out alone to hand in his results. John watched worried as a shadow of the man he loved got on a cab. There might be havoc in the cabinet, if anyone present wouldn't follow Sherlock's deductions immediately to a t. Hopefully men and women of that stature knew how to take an earful.

While waiting, John straightened out some piles of papers, tidied up the kitchen. He was wondering whether he'd dare to throw out the strange smelling excretion specimens that had been lying around the fridge for weeks now, when his phone rang.

" 'Tis Watson?"

"Yes?"

"I've got yer mate in me cab and 'e won't get off on 'is own."

John went to look out the window and saw a taxi on the kerb with the passenger door open, Sherlock trying to scramble out. He hurried down.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock insisted annoyed, but couldn't muster the strength to pull himself up from the backseat.

"Sure you are," John affirmed as he helped Sherlock out. "What do we owe you?" he asked the cabbie, but Sherlock had managed to pay. John put his arm around Sherlock's waist, letting Sherlock lean on him. He was bony and light despite being too heavy for his own feet to carry. John swallowed a sad sigh. He had done his best to ignore the worry over Sherlock's well-being while he worked, and now John's own work was obviously cut out for him.

John helped Sherlock to his bedroom, sat on the bed and undressed him, then put in pyjamas and tucked him in.

"John, really, I can manage," Sherlock grumbled as John lifted his feet under the duvet, but had to let John handle him anyway, not having the physical strength to carry out the words.

"Sure you can," John replied, kissing Sherlock's forehead.

"What next? Spoon-feeding me some chicken soup?" Sherlock's strained voice not quite accomplishing an ironic tone and his eyes betraying tenderness.

"That's the plan, luv."

John headed for the kitchen as Sherlock let out a wheeze, which supposedly was laughter. The man had been drained. John couldn't help being upset, even though he knew Sherlock needed this – to give his all on a case. The problem was it left you with nothing.

Sherlock was nodding off as John returned with a bowl of soup. Nourishment being as important as sleeping in regaining strength, John nudged him awake.

"Come on, Goldilocks, time for your porridge."

Sherlock's eyes sleepy, half-closed.

"Yes, doctor," Sherlock muttered grabbing the spoon. He had some pride left in him as he resolutely fed himself, even if John had to remind him to repeat the motion again and again. Finally he took the dish away to let Sherlock fall into a quiet, restoring sleep. Sherlock took his hand, squeezed it and murmured John's name before going out like a light.

Sherlock slept like dead, as if he hardly had the energy left even for that. Just to be sure John checked his pulse. It was there, faint, but steady. John stroked his face softly. My exhausted genius. He had never seen Sherlock so worn out. It usually took him a mere couple of hours between cases to get bored, but now he wouldn't simply have the strength to work for a while. Sherlock hadn't even objected to John confiscating his phone and laptop (and making sure he couldn't get to John's either). Mrs. Hudson was under the strictest instructions to let no one upstairs. The Queen would have to wait if need be. Sherlock needed to rest.

The next morning Sherlock was still too weak to get out of bed unassisted. After feeding him another bowl of soup, John sat by his bed watching as he dozed off again. The blog was getting quite a lot of anonymous comments congratulating Sherlock on his success – clearly the lid hadn't been on as well as it should have. Both their emails were also filling up with requests for help, but John had set up an auto-reply telling senders that they'd get back in a few weeks, if the issue was still relevant. He wasn't picking up their phones either, just screening the texts.

John had just sat down with the paper when he heard the front door followed by Mrs. Hudson's stern voice.

"Mr. Holmes, they are not to be disturbed!"

Mycroft's heavy steps headed for the stairs and John closed the bedroom door quickly before meeting them on the stairs.

"I'm sorry, John. He wouldn't listen," Mrs. Hudson apologized.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson."

She retreated, leaving John and Mycroft on the stairs.

John standing on the top step, Mycroft a few steps lower didn't leave Mycroft in any doubt that getting to his brother would be problematic.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft attempted his pleasant smile.

"Mycroft." John wasn't warming up to it.

"I would like to speak with my brother."

"He's unavailable."

"John," he pleaded.

"Mycroft," John stared coldly at him.

Mycroft blinked first.

"Be reasonable. Just a few, small details still needing clarification..."

John didn't budge: "How interesting for you. Surely nothing to do with us?"

Mycroft huffed annoyed: "It would go faster, if Sherlock'd work them out."

John shook his head determined: "Sherlock has worked quite enough for a while."

"I'm sure he can decide that for himself. He hasn't needed a lover to make those decisions for him in the past," Mycroft sneered.

John felt violent. The callous bastard.

"It is my professional opinion as a doctor that your brother is overworked," he stated coolly. "He needs to rest. Any strain at this point would be detrimental to his health. I suggest that you finish your work on your own. You're a smart lad, I'm sure you can do it," John gibed. "As to my personal opinion as your brother's lover, I think it's best you leave, before you're made to leave."

Mycroft assessed his options. John being a few steps higher than Mycroft and using his sturdier frame to man the stairs, left him no choice but to turn down.

"Very well then. You take care of him. Goodbye."

"Bye." As if John needed prompting to care for Sherlock.

Sherlock managed a tired chuckle as John returned to the bedroom.

"You're finally starting to learn how to handle Mycroft."

"You heard then. Your brother can be an ass." John sat on the bed, took Sherlock's hand in his.

"He sure has that talent. I was hoping you'd punch him."

"Almost did – it would've been a relief to hit a Holmes," John smirked.

"I haven't been easy on you, have I?" Sherlock almost looked apologetic, not an emotion he showed too often.

John lay next to him on the bed, took him in his arms and enjoyed the feel of Sherlock relaxing in his embrace.

"Nah. But then I didn't sign up for easy," he said playing with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sighed pleased.

"Any interesting cases on offer…?" he asked after a minute.

John laughed.

"Dream on. You won't be working for a while. Not 'til you have the strength to wreck the living room in boredom." Sherlock caressed John's arm.

"I could work from bed. You'd gather the info and I'd just process it…?" He was like a kid trying to get cookies. "I saw you reading something interesting on the blog…"

"No. Absolutely not. Negative." John leaned in and gave Sherlock a comforting kiss. "In fact… remember that mate of mine, Hayter, who's been asking me to visit him?"

"The colonel in Surrey?"

"That's the one. I thought we'd go over," John said and added: "He specifically welcomed you, too, the last time he mailed."

Sherlock looked agonised.

"A pompous old colonel, his nosy wife and a herd of unruly brats? No thanks. Just leave me with an interesting book and go. If you want to." There was the slightest trail of hurt in his voice. He would be upset if John were to leave him alone now.

"None of those. Never married, lives alone. You'd have all the privacy you want. We'd have all the privacy we want," he added stroking Sherlock's chest. "It's a big house and he spends his time studying military history and weaponry. He won't want us on his back all the time."

Sherlock still didn't look convinced.

"Come on – a spot of country air would do you good. You'd get some rest, no one would bother us with cases," John implored. "Walks in the park, long mornings in bed…" he said, nudging Sherlock gently.

Sherlock smiled at the thought.

"Alright. Country retreat it is then. But if the man is a rambler, I'll leave. I won't put up with any reminiscence about his heyday."


	2. Chapter 2

They drove out after a couple of days when Sherlock had regained some of his strength. John already had a hard time keeping him from the computer, so getting away was the only chance of continuing the recuperation.

Colonel's house stood at the end of a quiet lane with only two other houses on it, surrounded by woods and fields. Hayter met them outside. He was a stout man in his fifties with a handshake to crush fingers as he welcomed them cheerfully.

"Well, well, John," he eyed Sherlock curiously, "so glad you could finally make it. And this would be the famous Sherlock Holmes then. An honour to meet you."

John felt awkward. He had made no 'coming-out' announcements. It had been simply a matter of stopping to correct people, when they assumed him and Sherlock were more than friends. That didn't apply to his old friends, though, as they had never taken him for anything but straight. He figured the word had gotten around anyway, but didn't know what Hayter or anyone else really thought about the matter. But no fuss was made as Hayter took them to their room on the second floor, well away from his own at the other end of the corridor. There was a small study next to the room, which Hayter had cleared for Sherlock's use in case he needed it.

After settling in, they had drinks and John helped Hayter cook dinner, while Sherlock studied the library. Hayter only needed one scotch before his curiosity got the better of him.

"So, John, I never took you for a…" John wasn't going to help him in finding a politically correct term. "I never thought you were… men, then, eh?"

John took a long sip from his own glass. He hadn't really discussed the matter with anybody.

"Caught me by surprise, too."

"You used to be quite a hit with the ladies, as I recall."

"Don't know about that… but I had my share."

"So, when did you realise…?"

When I caught myself sucking Sherlock's cock? Or the first time I shoved mine up his arse? John grinned to himself.

"Sherlock just… grew on me, I suppose. He is absolutely brilliant, one of a kind."

"Good for you then. Good for you. Always happy to see a mate find someone special. Let's drink to that."

They clinked their glasses and downed what was left, both relieved that the extremely uncomfortable topic had now been dealt with. Nevertheless John appreciated Hayter bringing it up. It was better to have the questions upfront than speculated behind his back.

After dinner Sherlock and Hayter got engrossed in studying his collection of arms, which included rarities from around the world. Hayter was well-travelled and knew his subject thoroughly, so he was fully capable in engaging Sherlock in intelligent conversation. John happily sat by himself in a comfy chair and lifted his feet up. He had a book with him for alibi, but no plans of opening it. Finally a bit of rest and comfort for him as well. It had been a long time since he had last sat down without a nagging worry over Sherlock at the back of his mind. The man was on his feet and had eaten, so John could relax with a clear conscience.

Drifting off John was jerked awake by the two men joining him.

"Could I try one or two of the pistols tomorrow?" Sherlock was asking.

"Sure, I have a bit of a practise lane at the back. Not strictly legal, but since the neighbours don't grumble, who's going to notice?"

"Mind you," he continued, "I might do well in taking one of them with me upstairs tonight, just in case."

John became interested: "Why is that?"

"One of the bigwigs 'round here, old Acton, had his house broken into on Monday. No real damage done, but they don't know who did it either."

"No clues?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing yet, as far as I know. Well, the affair is a petty one, of course, a common burglary, none of the excitement you're used to."

Sherlock waved his hand politely, although his smile revealed he was pleased at not being taken for someone who solves the mysteries of stolen televisions.

"Was there anything out of the ordinary about it?" he graciously returned the favour by appearing interested.

"I fancy not. They'd gone in through the patio doors, I imagine, and ransacked the library. Turned the place upside down. Precious little they got for their trouble: a copy of 'Homer', a couple of worthless candlesticks, a crystal swan – I've seen the thing, I'm sure it won't be missed – an oak barometer and, would you believe it, a ball of twine."

"They won't be making bank with that," John gagged.

"No, apparently they just grabbed what they could."

Sherlock grunted dismissively: "The local police should be able to deal with that. It's obvious that…"

But John cut him short: "Sherlock, don't even start. You're here to rest."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and shared an amused smile with Hayter.

"Whatever you say, doctor."

They continued with less dangerous topics and as Sherlock went to bed early, John and Hayter spent the evening rattling off about the past and their common friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**~SLASH~ You can skip straight to chapter 4, if you want to; no major plot elements.**

John woke up the next morning to the familiar feeling of Sherlock's gaze on him. He had missed it. Funny, the little things you grow used to.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, a faint morning light trickling through the curtains.

"Six thirtytwo," Sherlock said brushing his hair.

"Ouch, give me another two hours." John closed his eyes.

"Sure," Sherlock agreed pulling the duvet off John and sliding his hand under the pyjamas to stroke John's chest, leaning in to kiss affectionately where his hand had passed. As his lips tasted John's skin, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent. John. His hand wandered on lower and he fondled John's groin briefly in passing making John sigh with pleasure, his body unfolding, opening itself for Sherlock, inviting his touch. Sherlock started unbuttoning John's pyjama top, his lips following along, caressing John's chest, sides, abdomen. Gently waking up his senses, every brush rousing him. John still held on to the remnants of sleep, sensing everything through slumber. Sherlock's touch a comforting dream.

"…if you're happy letting the convalescent do all the work," Sherlock scoffed sucking just below John's nipple with sudden force. John moaned delighted.

"That would be unethical, now, wouldn't it?" John groaned. He pulled Sherlock to his lips and kissed him eagerly. These full lips all for him, for him only. He relished Sherlock with his tongue, arousal now fiercely rushing over him. Sherlock yelped surprised as John turned him to his back and got on top of him.

It had been way too long since he had had Sherlock under him, yearning for his touch. John took a moment to look at him, the eyes full of desire for his touch, body bucking up against his, lips parted in excitement. Beautiful. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock deeply, fully, before moving hungrily lower, pecking his neck. Sherlock already whispering his name, letting him know how much he needed him. It had been weeks, if not months, since they'd made love. Work, blasted work, being a priority. Right now neither one of them could imagine what could possibly be more important or more compelling than this.

John finished undressing them slowly. Took off his own pyjama, then Sherlock's, traced his arm, arm, leg, leg with his fingers, his mouth, learning their composition once again. Sherlock quivered. They had longed for each other's bodies, their lips and fingers keen to touch the other where they could, feeling each other again, thirsty after a long draught. Their cocks hard, brushing as they pressed together. John kissed Sherlock's stomach, buried his face against it, one hand absentmindedly stroking the soft skin on his balls. Sherlock raised his hips, aching to be held. John, unable to resist, took him in his mouth, all of him, swirled his tongue around the tip savouring the taste, loving how Sherlock's breath grew faster, more shallow, anxious for John.

John made Sherlock get close, so blissfully close, until letting go, coming on top of him once more. As their lips met, Sherlock grabbed his hair, pulled him closer, his eyes begging for John to fuck him.

"You're gorgeous. Gorgeous," John panted as he slid gradually, carefully in to the tight heat. The glorious ass encasing him, John caught his breath. Amazing. Pushing in, pulling out, slowly. In again, further. Their eyes open, locked, passing messages there were no words for. John quickened his pace, Sherlock pushing back, pulling him deeper. He took Sherlock in his hand, the rhythm of their hips guiding the strokes. Sherlock held on to John's buttock, the other hand on his face, the thumb slipping into John's mouth. John sucked it desperately.

Sherlock started coming first, thrusted his head back, pulling John along with the trembles of his body. The pleasure shattering them, a silent weep escaping. The release almost unbearable. John pressed his mouth against Sherlock's chest, muffling his groans on it.

John collapsed next to Sherlock, cuddled against him, Sherlock's cum now all over them.

"Where've you been?" Sherlock whispered wrapping John in his arms, "I missed you."

"Me?" John laughed in a daze, "Been here all along, luv. It was you, who found a case more interesting."

"How incredibly idiotic of me," Sherlock kissed John's face tenderly.

"Agreed. But don't worry, I'll be here waiting for you. Always," John pecked the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

John stretched to get a tissue and wiped the cum and the lube off the sheets best he could. It was one thing telling your friends you were gay, quite another leaving them the proof in the laundry. Sherlock sat up and John nestled next to him, his head on Sherlock's lap as Sherlock picked up a book from the bedside table, and started to read stroking John's hair distracted. It was peaceful, no sounds of traffic, and even the birds weren't chirping. Sherlock so warm and comfortable against him, his touch soothing. John nodded off.


	4. Chapter 4

Another hour later they were seated by the kitchen table, Hayter having prepared a hearty, traditional breakfast. Sherlock had smiled at John's blush when they came downstairs. He couldn't understand what it could possibly matter, whether Hayter had actually heard them having sex or not. The man had to know that gay men have gay sex (surprise) and had even given them just the one bedroom. However to his coy lover's chastity it apparently was of importance. Judging by Hayter's manner he hadn't witnessed anything. Not until he saw John's face, that is.

When Hayter's phone rang, Sherlock put John at ease assuring him of Hayter's ignorance. Not that he usually lied to him, but it would be a bloody uncomfortable visit for John otherwise. John was only happy to believe him.

"Well, fellas, there's been another burglary," Hayter told them as he returned to the table.

"Really?" Sherlock was surprised.

"Yes, at Cunningham's, just down the road here. And this time someone got hurt. The Cunninghams rent out rooms occasionally to construction labourers working in the village and their current lodger has been shot. Wasyli, I think, is the lad's name. Willy, we've been calling him."

"How is he? Dead?" John asked.

"I'm afraid so. The villain was breaking in through the kitchen door at midnight, when Willy came on him. Shot him, in cold-blood. A polite and friendly young man he was, not like some… Helped me fix a couple of roof tiles – and on his day off that was," the Colonel shook his head. "I promised to drop by later. Cunningham's a decent fellow, he sounded shaken. It must be the same crooks that were over at Acton's."

"And stole that strange collection of items," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Hayter affirmed.

"Huh. It may turn out simple enough, but it seems odd, doesn't it? Burglars tend to change their scene of operations and not hit two houses in the same neighbourhood in a matter of few days. I thought this would be the last area that needed to worry about this particular lot. Well, live and learn as they say," Sherlock mused uncharacteristically docile.

"Must be someone local. Acton's and Cunningham's are the biggest houses around here."

"And richest?"

"Ought to be, yes, but they've been fighting over the Cunningham estate. Acton thinks he has a claim on half of it and lawyers have been at it with both hands. It has been draining both their funds, I'd wager. I doubt the Cunningham's would be taking lodgers otherwise."

"A local burglar shouldn't be difficult to find in a place like this," Sherlock yawned. "No need to give me looks, John. I'm not going to meddle."

John turned his eyes to his plate. Damn the man. But lucky the case was boring.

At that the doorbell rang. Hayter returned to the kitchen with an Inspector Forrester. Hayter looked a bit embarrassed as he glanced at John, guessing why the police were here.

The Inspector was a smart, fresh-faced young man.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to intrude on your breakfast, but I just had to pop by, when I heard Mr. Holmes would be here."

The Colonel waved his hand towards Sherlock, and looked apologetically at John. John shrugged, admitting his defeat. Either Sherlock would insult the Inspector's intelligence, as John hoped, or dig up some details that made the case interesting. It was out of his hands now.

"We thought with the lads that perhaps you'd like to lend us a hand," Forrester blurted enthusiastically.

"Not your lucky day, John," Sherlock grinned. "We were just talking about the burglary. Let's have the details then."

"You've heard of the Acton case, I take it." All nodded. "We had not much to go on there, but now the man was seen. We have no doubt it's the same bloke. He was off like a deer after having shot at…" the Inspector turned to his notes.

"Wasyli," Sherlock filled in.

"Right. It so happens, that Mr. Cunningham saw the perp from an upstairs window and his son Alec saw him from the back passage. We got the call just before twelve."

"What were they doing at the time?" John asked.

"Mr. Cunningham was…" again Forrester looked at his notes and John could see that Sherlock was getting frustrated, "yes, he'd just gone to bed and Alec Cunningham was smoking through the window. Tobacco, he says, but we're thinking weed. Already in his dressing gown he was, getting ready to kip down for the night. Anyway, the bloke called out, Willy, that is and Alec ran to see what was going on. He saw two men wrestle outside the door, heard the shot and saw Willy drop. The shooter rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham saw from his window how the man gained the road, but lost sight of him then. Alec…" again a glance at the notes, Sherlock turning to look out the window and count to ten, "well, he stopped to help Willy, of course, so the shooter got away. The description they gave was of a man of average height, lean figure, dressed in black," Forrester closed his notebook. "That doesn't help much in the end, really," he concluded sounding defeated as if suddenly realising his eye-witnesses probably wouldn't be much help after all.

"No gun found? Any last words?" John quizzed.

"Nope, unfortunately not. The kitchen door had been forced, but there's not much to go on… except this," Forrester took out an evidence bag with the corner of a post-it note in it.

Sherlock examined it closely. " 11:45 pm", the remains of the note said. He gave a dry chuckle: "Crude," and seeing the puzzled faces of the others added, "but whatever works. Where did you find it?"

"It was in the grip of the deceased, the rest of it obviously torn off," Forrester noted.

Obviously. Sherlock rolled his eyes. If this was the peak of the Inspector's deductive prowess his help most certainly would be needed.

"Either he took it from his killer or the killer tried to tear it off his hand. As you see, that's just around the time the crime happened. Could be an appointment. We're working a theory that this," (the notes, again), "Wasyli was perhaps one of the burglars and was helping the other into the house. Maybe they got in to a quarrel… one thing led to another and the one with the gun took his chance."

Sherlock placed his palms in front of his face and contemplated a minute.

"Yes, perhaps. The note however suggests other scenarios, don't you think?"

No, the Inspector clearly didn't.

"Well, there are some intriguing aspects to the case," Sherlock sprang to his feet with all his old energy, eyes bright. There was no sign of fatigue in him. "Let's go and see the body then, shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

The body still hadn't been removed. It lay just outside the kitchen door. Wasyli had been wearing sweats and a t-shirt, feet in old, once white trainers, now speckled with different coloured paint.

There was no doubt about the cause of his death, yet John examined the body conscientiously.

"Shot, close range, not more than two feet, not closer than six inches. There may be blood spatters on the shooter. The bullet entered at an angle on his chest and went straight through the heart. He was killed instantly," he confirmed the forensic pathologist's earlier findings.

Sherlock did his own inspection of the body, but found nothing of interest (smoker, recreational cocaine user approx. once a month, gym three times a week; didn't wear protective gloves or masks at work, if he could get away with it; vain about his looks but no fashion sense, so relied on his sister when clothes-shopping; mother recently deceased – was that important? Probably not, as she lived in Poland and hadn't seen his son in nearly two years.)

Forrester listened to the list of deductions dumbfounded. The famous detective had to be either a clairvoyant or a hoax. He didn't seem to mind that Hayter had also tagged along, curious about the local crime as well as Sherlock's methods. Hayter had to agree with John. The man was unique. Though maybe not in the most wholesome way.

Sherlock proceeded to scrutinise the wrecked kitchen door. It had been pried open from the outside. A lock wasn't much of a help if the frames were so feeble that a single man could shatter them with a crowbar. The door would have given with less force, the splintered wood as if on display, a specimen on the effects of crime.

"What does that mean then?" Forrester asked, the chippings refusing to communicate with him as they seemed to be doing with Sherlock. Sherlock turned to John quizzically.

"Whoever broke in, didn't care about being inconspicuous, but wanted to make an impression," John ventured and was rewarded with an approving nod from Sherlock.

"Ah," Forrester was still baffled, but if that had some meaning to these Londoners, perhaps all would become clear in time.

"Now," Sherlock addressed the Inspector, "the Cunninghams, if you please." Forrester made to take them in to the house, but Sherlock had him bring the father and son outside.

They were alike in build, the round type that still looked spry. Mr. Cunningham appeared ever the country magnate in his green corduroys and a fresh shirt with a tan that suggested regular trips to Spain. Alec Cunningham was more casually dressed in jeans and a polo-shirt. He was in his late twenties with a posture slacker than that of his father, trying to pass off relaxed and unaffected.

Upon Sherlock's request they indicated the route the shooter had taken. He had ran across the pebbled courtyard on to the grass, curved left and jumped over the newly planted hedgerow, hitting a small ditch before stepping on to the road and disappearing. After establishing the course accurately, Sherlock got on all fours and started to follow it, eyes fixed on the ground, popping out his magnifier ever so often. Alec Cunningham looked at the proceedings with scorn until a uniformed officer escorted them back inside.

"We have been over it, Mr. Holmes. There are no tracks," the Inspector told him.

"And that in itself is suggestive, isn't it?" Sherlock remarked, not lifting his gaze from the patch of grass he was poring over.

Forrester shook his head perplexed, trying to find some explanation from John, who could only shrug his shoulders in ignorance. It hadn't rained in…what? Three days at least. There would be no foot prints to find.

"Is your… friend alright?" Hayter inquired John after a while.

John studied Sherlock. He was focused, his brow creased as he leaped up, taking in his surroundings before bending down again energetically.

"Yeah, he's fine, surprisingly so. Back to his old self," John assured him. "Though he is more polite than normally. But that's aftereffects from the case we were on. It'll wear off, I'm sure."

"If you say so. His methods just don't look very… sensible."

"Don't be put off by appearances. The sense lies in the findings and, trust me, the deductions he'll make will be amazing." Not that John could fathom either why Sherlock was halfway in a ditch at that moment.

"Well, John. I'd say this country retreat is proving out to be a success. The case is quite interesting. Nice little touches, yes," Sherlock announced as he rejoined them.

Inspector Forrester drew a sharp breath and protested:

"What touches? Surely there's nothing to go on!"

"There is the note at least," Sherlock smirked good-humouredly.

"But that doesn't tell much. We would need the rest of it. Or if we even knew who wrote it. As such, I don't know what could be done."

"It's a _post-it note_, Inspector. It can only mean one of two things and in this case it's evident which. The rest of it we'll find in the pocket of the shooter," Sherlock brought him up to speed.

"The pocket of the shooter! Surely we need the shooter before we find his pockets!" the Inspector was exasperated.

"Well, well, worth thinking over," Sherlock declared cheerfully.


	6. Chapter 6

They found the Cunninghams in an upstairs sitting room watching TV.

"Did you find a box of matches from the man's hotel then? Case solved?" Alec sneered at Sherlock, who simply ignored him unceremoniously.

"These things take time, Mr. Cunningham," Forrester explained on his behalf.

"No doubt, if even the legendary Sherlock Holmes can't find any clues,"

"Now, now, we do have one thing to go on…" the Inspector begun, when suddenly Sherlock wavered, his face twisting in pain, almost tripping over if not for John, who caught him at the last moment.

John, in near shock himself from the sudden deterioration of Sherlock's strength, put his arm around his waist.

"I got you, luv," he urged guiding Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and half-carrying him to the nearest seat. How could he be so careless? He should have stopped Sherlock. He was barely out of the woods and John had let him get excited over a case, let him bounce about outside, when he should've known it was too early. Some doctor he was – only interested in chasing criminals.

But it was much worse being the kind of lover who couldn't be trusted to look after his partner. He was just as stupid as Sherlock thought, John reproached himself sharply.

Sherlock lay back in the chair for some minutes, breathing heavily as he recovered himself. Hayter fetched a glass of water on John's orders. John briefly examined Sherlock, took his pulse, felt the temperature, placed his ear on his chest, but could hear nor see anything alarming. Just a fit of fatigue, not unexpected. If only John weren't so negligent, they would be quietly settled in bed reading, or taking an unhurried stroll in the park. He should have absolutely forbidden this investigation. They shouldn't both get carried away with cases in this way. It was irresponsible of him.

"I'm sorry, I'm recovering from a severe illness as John'll tell you. These things will happen, nothing to worry about," Sherlock explained.

"Should I get someone to drive you back?" Forrester offered. John leaped at the suggestion, but Sherlock declined sternly:

"No, no. Since I'm here, I might as well get a few more facts on the case."

The eyes of others were on John apparently waiting for his approval. After a brief hesitation, John caved in, as usual. He didn't dare interfere with Sherlock's marriage. But they would talk about this.

"Fine, what is it?" John complied unhappily.

"It seems utterly brainless that anyone would try to enter a house, where the occupants are still awake and moving about. You had the lights still on, didn't you?"

"Yes," Mr. Cunningham confirmed, "The hall up here was lit as well as the stairs and you had a light on downstairs, didn't you, Alec?"

His son agreed.

"See. There must be a reason for the burglar's insolence. John, pen and paper, please." John handed the items to the Cunninghams as Sherlock signalled.

"Could you both write down the exact times you've gone to bed in the last week?"

"Sure, if that'll help," the older man sought assurance from the Inspector, who nodded dubiously.

They set down to scribbling and soon handed over their lists of hours. Sherlock examined them briefly.

"So at around the same time as yesterday? Well, it was worth a try," he concluded.

Alec Cunningham didn't even bother trying to hide his contempt anymore:

"We could have told you that! No need for the writing exercise."

He had a point. John grimaced as he saw Sherlock's evident embarrassment in making such an elementary mistake in his methodology. He was not alright, clearly not in his best form.

"No, you're right of course," Sherlock admitted.

John hoped they would leave. Sherlock had to understand that he was not fine.

But the detective continued with his questions: "I would like to make sure of one more thing. Are you certain that nothing was taken? That the burglar was caught entering, not leaving?"

"Why, of course! We would have noticed if something was missing and the place would have been turned over," Mr. Cunningham said.

"Perhaps. But keep in mind that at Acton's they only took strange odds and ends. You might not notice a ball of twine gone missing."

They had to admit Sherlock was right.

"Why don't we have a look to see if anything's awry? Start with the upstairs here, easiest to have a look in your bedrooms first, isn't it?" Sherlock sprung up. John was surprised to see the familiar glint in his eyes again.

The Cunninghams agreed grumbling. They went first to the son's room. It faced the back of the house. The room was messy, clothes left lying on chairs and magazines on the floor.

Alec went over his possessions and Sherlock prompted him to look in the closet too.

"Everything's here."

"And the state of the room is all his own doing," the father pointed out, "We have a lady coming over to tidy the place up once a week, but I've told her not to bother here. If a grown man can't keep his room neat, it isn't anybody else's worry either."

His son wheezed annoyed. There are things you need to put up with, if you choose to live with your father, John noticed satisfied. He didn't like the snot's attitude.

"Moving on," Sherlock was quickly out the door and pulled John with him before the others could follow. They entered Mr. Cunningham's room, where Sherlock proceeded to tip over a small table with a houseplant on it. The pot broke and dirt spread all over. John was astonished, but had no time to recover as the others came in.

"Now look what you've done, John," Sherlock tut-tutted, "a fine mess on the carpet."

John, red faced, stooped to clean the clutter with the help of others. The pieces of the pot had spread out wide.

"Sorry 'bout that," John apologised. Sherlock must have his reasons… if he was alright. If he wasn't, well, there were worse and more dangerous things that crafty mind could think of.

"No worries," Mr. Cunningham said.

They were all trying to be of use in the crowded space, when Alec suddenly exclaimed:

"Where's he gone to?"

"Who?"

"Holmes, where the hell has he ran to? Come on, dad."

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and John staring at each other puzzled.

"I hear he's a genius and all, but maybe I shouldn't have disturbed you this morning. I'm starting to think he's not right in the head," Forrester said.

There was nothing to say as John was wondering the same thing.

"John!" they suddenly heard Sherlock scream a few doors down. It sent a chilling shudder over John. Sherlock. He dashed madly to Alec's room, where sounds of struggle were coming from. Sherlock's cries were sinking down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting.

The two Cunninghams were bent over him, Alec clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder was wringing his right wrist. For a split second John thought about reaching for his gun, which he now habitually kept with him, as he felt a murderous rage taking over him. But Hayter and Forrester were right behind him and in an instant the three of them had freed Sherlock.

He staggered to his feet, pale and exhausted.

"Inspector, here are your burglars and murderers," Sherlock announced.

"What on earth?" Forrester was stunned.

"They broke into their neighbour Acton's house, murdered their lodger Wasyli, and, yes, here's the rest of the note, which they were trying to wrestle off me. I found it in Alec's pocket." He gave the Inspector a crumbled slip of yellow paper. "Find his stash and you'll find the gun. The carpet in his room is loose near the window, I'd look under the floorboards there."

The Inspector was unable to speak.

"Give me a call, if you need anything more. It has been positively invigorating," Sherlock said pleasantly ready to leave.

Mr. Cunningham was sobbing, his head buried in his hands, in a way, that suggested the police would get any details they needed from him.


	7. Chapter 7

"How about that stroll now, John?" Sherlock said taking his hand as they stepped out into the beautiful summer's day. The sky had cleared and the sun shined in blue skies, a gentle breeze cooling the air.

"Now wait a minute," Hayter protested, "What just happened? I'm absolutely flabbergasted and need someone to fill me in."

Sherlock was surprised. The Colonel had followed them all along and was so far behind in his reasoning? And he'd taken him for an intelligent man.

"Sure, why don't you invite Acton over, too, tonight, and I'll lay out the case for you?"

John smiled to himself. Annoyed as Sherlock was by the average mind, you wouldn't find him objecting to a chance of showing off.

Hayter was relieved: "Excellent. That's mighty good of you. I'm sure he'll be happy to meet you too. I'll go over right now. A stiff drink is what I need after all this action," remembering his duties as a host he continued: "There's a nice path over in the park there. Just follow the road and it'll come up on the left. Lovely scenery."

Sherlock pressed his hand on John's back and headed for the recommended direction.

"Sherlock, shouldn't we go back and get you to bed?"

Sherlock laughed light-heartedly.

"Don't be stupid, John. There's nothing wrong with me." He stretched his arms, took in the summer's air yawning and started walking briskly.

"Nothing? Except you almost passed out not an hour ago and were nearly strangled!"

"Nonsense. Really, John? That's the best you can do?"

John took a deep breath.

"Okay. So you didn't nearly pass out. You faked that, because…?"

"I had to stop Forrester from reminding the Cunninghams of a vital piece of evidence they still held on to."

"The note. Right. Your pulse. It was perfectly normal. I should've realised." He felt like an idiot.

"Yeah, you should've. I was afraid you would. But you can be trusted, always so dependable in a moment of crisis," Sherlock smacked a kiss on him. "When you're in emotional turmoil over me, you lose your intellect altogether. That could be dangerous, you know. A steady head and a steady hand, don't they teach you something like that in the army?"

John wasn't flattered by the reliance. To be trusted to behave like an ass in crisis. Marvellous.

"Something like that, yes. But the strangling was real?" he hesitated.

"It was, yes. I have to admit that I'm a bit under the weather. It should take more than a couple of country brutes to get me down. Made for a fine show for the Inspector, though. He was a bit too taken in with the local notability."

"But why did they…" John was interrupted by Sherlock pulling him in to a silencing, and, admittedly, wonderful kiss.

"I'll explain later. Now, can we have that pleasant walk in the park I was promised?"

He caressed the back of John's neck and led them on.


	8. Chapter 8

They had gathered in Hayter's sitting room. The windows were open to a fine summer evening. Acton was a good, old-fashioned gentleman, dressed appropriately in a linen suit and even had a hat to match. John noticed amused the look of appreciation he gave Sherlock upon entering.

"Now, where do we start? The post-it note?" Hayter begun eagerly.

"John?" Sherlock turned to him.

John was used to these spot checks, on place to determine whether he kept up. Often he didn't, but this was an easy one.

"The burglary at Acton's."

"Right, the burglary at Acton's. The library of an old house, an old man living alone, sleeping upstairs and all they took was worthless rubbish. Obviously they were after something specific. Mr. Acton, I believe you have a safe in your library?"

"Why, that's right, how did you know?"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. It was a simple deduction.

"The Cunninghams knew, too. They knew also about the legal document you obtained and put there, which would cost them half their estate."

"Indeed, we were to have a hearing next week, where the matter would've been settled based on a deed I was finally able to procure. I've based my claim on it, but the original was misplaced, so the matter remained unresolved."

"They were about to lose their land and house, which are the only things left of their wealth. Getting desperate, they concocted a burglary. But they were not able to find what they were looking for, despite turning the place over. Leaving in a hurry, they ended up grabbing what was closest at hand. Their so called haul told me at once that they were looking for something specific, not just anything of value."

"Ah," Hayter exclaimed, "that's what you were going to say on the first night! I must admit it stuck to my mind."

"Yes, John putting my well-being before your curiosity," Sherlock looked at John with tenderness. The message was so clear to John that he blushed faintly. It was like saying 'I love you' in company.

Hayter smiled to himself. What an extraordinary partner his friend had found, but clearly a loving one.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't inspect the scene at Acton's and frankly I put too much faith in the local police force... This time the criminals weren't that lucky. The door at Cunningham's was simply ludicrous. No one would bother giving it a beating like that, if they were trying to go in quietly. No, I knew at once that we were dealing with a cover-up. Then when I found out the route the assailant had taken I immediately noticed the tracks."

"But there were none! The ground was hard and dry!"

"Exactly. The ground was dry. But the ditch wasn't. Anyone jumping over that fence would've landed in it and left heavy prints on the brink. There were none. Clearly, the messieurs Cunningham were lying."

"The next interesting pointer was, of course, the infamous post-it note. Now, where do people use post-it-notes? At home or at work. No one _sends_ a post-it-note. In this case it was evident, that Wasyli had gotten it from someone at home. They don't use post-it-notes on construction sites. So only two people could have written it, either the father or the son. The Inspector was good enough to scan me a copy. John, I believe it's been sent to your phone."

"Yeah, here it is."

John passed his phone around, so that everyone could take a look at the message:

'Don't tell him,

but I'll pay. Meet

you out back

11:45 pm'

"That doesn't make any sense," Hayter said exasperated.

"It makes every sense. Wasyli saw the men return from their nightly activities. Curious about the matter, he soon found the things they'd stolen. Instead of going to the police, he thought he'd make a bit of money. The Cunninghams, naturally, didn't want to pay. So they decided to kill him. And for that they needed Wasyli to die outside at a time when a burglary might be attempted. They would never even be suspected for a killing a surprised criminal would do. But how to get him to the right place at the right time? They lived together – people don't arrange meetings within the same household. They simply knock on doors, when they know the person is at home. It was quite cunning, really. The note suggests a rift between the father and son. One of them was ready to pay, the other wasn't. As you can see, the note is not signed."

"Well, surely Wasyli would know the handwriting," Hayter suggested.

"Yes, that would be a problem. If he knew, who wrote it, what would stop him from just bringing the matter up when they pump into each other at the fridge and demand payment there and then? Ah, these two were quite clever," Sherlock smiled satisfied with the challenge the case had posed.

"They wrote the note together. Clearly it isn't the work of a single hand. They had written it in turns, each man writing one letter after the other. Wasyli couldn't be sure, which one it was from. Did it look more like the father's or son's hand? Hard to tell. So, you see, he had to follow the instructions and couldn't bring it up before the time named."

"That's why you made them write down the hours," John understood.

"Precisely. To confirm my theory. And you thought I was losing it. Have a little faith, hon," he briefly stroked John's hand. "Now you see how the 1's in 11 are different. The other corresponds with the younger man's handwriting, the other with the father's."

"Ingenious, simply ingenious," Hayter admired Sherlock's deductions. "Why didn't they destroy the note? That wasn't very clever."

"They were supposed to, obviously. Young Alec was to do the deed, but he isn't the cool-nerved, hardened criminal he'd like to think. He needed to calm himself down a bit before actually pulling the trigger. Smokes too much pot, does young master Alec. Never was into the stuff myself. Dulls the mind. After shooting he took the paper from Wasyli's hand and put it in his pocket, but not being at his sharpest, and having just killed a man, forgot about it."

"Didn't the police inspect their clothing?"

"Pft, he only gave them his dressing gown, which he of course wasn't wearing at the time. A young man smoking weed in his dressing gown? No, this isn't a 19th century romantic novel with country gentlemen lounging about in their gowns. I spotted the jeans on top of a pile of clothes in his room and there it was, exactly as expected."

"Why, that's brilliant!"

"An amusing little puzzle, yes. Now, if the police would've treated it as a common domestic shooting, they would've been onto Alec in no time. But the burglary theory was swallowed hook, line, and sinker."

Sherlock never ceased to amaze John, who was beaming with pride and admiration. How he'd gotten so lucky, he'd never know. He wasn't one for public displays of affection, but still he took Sherlock's hand and pressed it on his lips.


	9. Chapter 9

EPILOGUE

When they settled in bed that night Sherlock reached out for John, stroking his chest dreamily.

"This has been a most refreshing trip. I'm looking forward to going home and getting back to work tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'm well rested, bursting with energy. That was the reason for coming here, wasn't it?"

What about my rest, John thought.

"You're right. You'll stay another day. You do look a bit pale. Get some sun and sleep. You really have to take better care of yourself, John. We don't want you tiring yourself."

John closed his eyes tired and laughed to himself. He'd been granted a day off. Fantastic.

"Now, where's my phone? Can't wait to pick out the next case."


End file.
